


02:34:19

by sparrovvs



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Dialoglogs (Homestuck), Domestic, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pre-Sburb (Homestuck), bro strider is gay, it's kind of vague, possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22769260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrovvs/pseuds/sparrovvs
Summary: Harley is the herpetologist and you, the elusive viper out of whose fangs he will milk expensive venom.__________________________________________________________________________________________________No. I have no idea what this is. Should you read it? Yes.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Grandpa Harley | Beta Jake English
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	02:34:19

02:34:15. 

16\. 

17\. 

18\. 

The miniscule indicator on the screen goes from despondent grey to lively green at exactly 02:34:19. It only takes a few seconds for you to calculate the time difference. A habit. A ritual, a helpful voice in your head reminds you of the term from one of the few, sporadic sessions of therapy you’ve gone through over the decades. 

Sending a message too soon after he comes online is taboo. You decided this yourself a long time ago, and have kept it as an unspoken rule ever since. If you send something too soon it may be read as desperation, or worse, dependence. If you take too long it may be read as indifference. There’s no room for the possibility of him thinking you’re apathetic about his presence, not when it’s so scarce. Rationality tells you that he doesn’t care. He probably doesn’t notice the vast seconds you spend meticulously counting before giving him the proper greeting at the perfect time. It’s all in your head. You do it anyways. 

TT: Yo. Harls.  
TT: On a scale of one to ten how much do you miss civilization right now?  
TT: The audience casts its vote at zero.  
TT: Houston is currently 72℉ with chances of light showers.   
TT: Based on the last few days of flickering in and out, I’ve confidently deduced that you’re balls deep into ethically sourced mud and other unidentifiable foliage.  
TT: Y/Y?   


It’s pitch black outside the windows of the apartment but the vibrant blue light of your multiple computer displays does an adequate job of illuminating your desks surface. The view of Houston from twenty stories high was once a big pill to swallow. Through familiarity it’s become a soothing sight. Yet once the dusk settles, you still find the violent glow of city lights to be both harsh and beautiful. A contrast that you drink in eagerly and often from the expanse of concrete that tops the building. Even after many years of seeing it on a nightly basis. 

GT: Good morning, Strider!  
GT: Before I answer to the usual disquisitions I’d like to catch up on the pleasantries.  
GT: Is it permitted?

You’re sitting at the desk, situated against the wall of the living room, scattered with debris from your latest sewing project. Too many uncanny valley anime faces have their eyes in your direction from their dedicated perches. They see your reactions to the lines of dialogue; silent witnesses. There’s no reason for your heart rate to change let alone for it to quicken the way it does. Jungle green text shouldn’t be comparable to the effects of cardio or sudden spikes in blood pressure. 

TT: Permitted.  
TT: If you gotta.   
GT: It’s customary. You rarely give me the information I want unprompted. Were you to do so, this unpleasantness would be completely avoided!  
GT: Imagine that. An easy, lax conversation.   


The implication that any part of this is unpleasant makes you let out a short, hot breath through your nose. 

TT: It’s okay. No need to do the whole sneaky reach around to get at this rock hard info.  
TT: Pry at your leisure. 

Your mind wanders to the fact that if he asked, you would pry your ribcage open one by one to let him at the precious viscera held beneath. It borders on insane how romantic you think it might be to compare his hands to the mesentery keeping you held together. Fascia eat your heart out. It might as well be Elmer’s School Glue when attempting to stand next to the way Jake Harley holds you together. 

GT: Will a simple ‘how have you been’ suffice?  
GT: Or shall I zest it up?  
GT: A rowdy ‘what does work have in store?’ or an unruly ‘what’s on the irons today?’  
TT: Woah.  
TT: Hold back some. Keep it appropriate.   
TT: Nothing over an auspicious ‘how are you?’.   
GT: Duly noted, love.  
GT: How are you?  


You know what he wants to hear. 

There’s a slight ache to the left of your frontal lobe from lack of hydration. The coffee you picked up from the shitty gas station down the block is still stationed next to Asuka Langley Soryu with a thick layer of leftover sugar and coffee grounds wallowing at the bottom of the paper cup. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve stabbed your fingertips with pins, and have stopped blaming the machine each time it purposely chews through your fingerprints like you do through nacho cheese dusted Doritos. 

Dave didn’t stop crying for three hours. 

You don’t remember what the sun looks like. 

Harley has been away for one hundred forty seven days, six hours, and too many seconds. 

TT: Fine.   
GT: Codswallop.   
GT: How are you?  
TT: Tired.  
GT: Getting there.  
TT: Bushed.  
GT: Knackered.   
TT: Debilitated.  
GT: Whacked.   
TT: Enerverated.   
GT: Did you try my suggestion?  
TT: I almost got to Pasadena before the l’il fucker finally conked out. Don’t know how much more of these late night expeditions the old Ford can handle.   
TT: Never thought I’d get tired of listening to Patsy Cline with a never ending maize backdrop.   
GT: Fantastic! I knew the tyke had to have a weak spot. They all do.   
GT: Your eardrums will thank you one day. As will the sleep you should currently be participating in.   
GT: Which is my next pressing question.

It’s disgusting how you can feel the concern and care oozing from each syllable. The pride that clings to the praise hidden between the lines. Secrets only you know how to pick up from simple phrases. It’s you. You are the decipherer. 

When you met him it was just as late. The bottom of his glass was ringed with golden whiskey remains and you had been nursing a beer bottle for an hour without repreve. His voice reminded you of honey Jack Daniel’s, and his outfit of the M.A.S.H. reruns that used to play on the television in the living room of one of your foster parent’s houses. Deep, forest green against warm russet skin. The pavement was wet with mist while he told you with a grin that smoking is the devil’s passtime. It tasted as good as it looked.

TT: Not in the cards.   
GT: Procure a new hand.  
GT: You’re a resourceful fellow, I know you can.  
TT: Insomnia isn’t poker. I can’t fake out a chemical imbalance.  
GT: Not with that attitude! 

The creak of your chair as you sink backwards into it is one ingrained into your brain. There’s two hundred and seventy-six stairs in the building. There’s ten wires behind the flatscreen. Dave will hiccup once before falling dead asleep. The chair creaks when it hits a fifty degree angle. 

TT: New proposal. Strip poker.  


Speaking of the flatscreen. It’s been a few hours since it’s perpetual replay of My Little Pony: The Movie (1986) had come to a stand still and been replaced by the blue box hovering in the middle of black: the eulogy after the DVD player’s last kicking breath. 

NO SIGNAL

(1) Check the cable connections and the settings of your source device.

(2) Press SOURCE on your remote to select connected source device. 

There’s a scattering of small metal cars, uneaten Cheerio’s, Crayolas and crumpled printer paper left on the floor along with your vile green Xbox game case litter. You glance to the surface of the futon. Cal has taken to chillaxing atop the blanket haphazardly hanging off the end. The rest of the space is left for you. Waiting. Inviting. Expectations of a night of rest that will never come, but instead make way for a sunny day of uneasy, interrupted sleep. 

GT: Hardly a good replacement for your needed hours of recuperation.   
GT: A better consideration for an evening of regale once I return.

Hook, line and sinker. 

Harley is the herpetologist and you, the elusive viper out of whose fangs he will milk expensive venom. 

Images of femdom milking fetish video titles cross your mind in the same manner headlines run below a middle aged news anchor. 

TT: You’re confident in that statement.   
GT: I never fail to reappear, no matter how far I wander.   
TT: Your wandering is taking an epoch.   
GT: As is your admittance of missing me. 

The cursor blinks in and out in an offending manner in your text input box. Your fingers hover over their respective keys on the board and you can feel how your eyebrows have knitted together to meet in the middle of your brow. There’s a challenge in the acknowledgement but it’s hollow. A bullet with only it’s casing. 

The outcome is the same no matter the response. No harm. No foul. He’ll bounce back whatever you say. 

Each time you avoid, he side steps. 

You attack, he parries. 

You lunge, he braces for impact. 

You pull, he pushes. 

TT: Stating the known in the face of someone enamored with identifying the uncharted and staring aphorism in its ulgy mug isn’t recommended.   
TT: Let alone encouraged.  
GT: I’ve hardly traversed the possibility that you may become complacent to normalcy. It would be a new and exciting theory. Worthy of my scrutinization.   
GT: I am, however, asking you, Dirk.   
GT: Not analyzing. No field of landmines or hollow point hyperboles awaiting you.  
GT: Merely an innocuous query.

A cold breeze flows through the open window of the living room, circulating the room to its eventual departure out the opposite window in the kitchen. The hair at the back of your neck stands on instinct in the exact spot where rough, work worn hands have so often pressed down against tension filled tendons. Innocuous. 

TT: What happens if I admit? 

Suddenly you’re five again. The pool opens up below you like an expansive maw, waiting to swallow you whole. Ripples of blue tile and white arranged into ‘10 FEET DEEP’ invites you to leap in the same manner you assume a fly trap’s mouth invites a witless insect. The flimsy plastic board you’re standing on wobbles like freshly laminated paper.

GT: You make an old boy’s heart squeeze a bit more enthusiastically for the day. 

Maybe it’s not so bad. The pros and cons sound like the internal monologue of a man on death’s row, yet the consequences hardly match the weight the conflict places on him. A sore belly from stark impact only lasts so long. The knowledge of cowardice if you don’t pull through will haunt you much longer. 

The kid is sound and safe in the other room, tucked in next to whatever he chose out of the millions of soft things you’ve sown for him. The city keeps going, cars rushing along the freeways below. Harley continues his trek through whichever bewildered landscape he’s dedicated himself to for the past four months. The cursor continues to flicker on the screen, and will continue to do so after you finish typing out your death sentence. 

TT: I miss you. A lot.   
GT: I miss you, too, dearest.  
GT: Perhaps the expedition is due to come to a close sooner rather than later. 


End file.
